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TWILIGHT    HOURS. 


TWILIGHT   HOURS: 


OR 


LEISUEE  MOMENTS  OF  AN  AKTIST. 


BY  E.  A.  BRACKETT. 


"  What,  art  thou  critical  ?  "  quoth  lie, 
Eschew  that  heart's  disease 

That  seeketh  for  displeasure,  where 
The  intent  hath  been  to  please  !  " 


Soitthey. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED  BY  FREEMAN  AND  BOLLES. 
1845. 


.  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845,  by 
E.  A.  BRACKETT,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court 
of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


PREFACE. 


AT  the  request  of  a  few  friends,  I  consented 
to  the  printing  of  this  little  volume  for  private 
circulation.  As  it  may  fall  into  less  friendly 
hands,  a  few  words  of  explanation  may  not  be 
inappropriate.  The  principal  part  of  the  book 
was  written,  during  the  last  year,  in  those  in 
tervals  from  study  and  labor  which  fall  to  the 
lot  of  every  artist,  and  with  no  expectation  that 

942023 


IV  PREFACE. 

it  would  be  read  beyond  my  own  fire-side. 
The  enthusiasm  which  every  artist  brings  to  his 
profession,  not  unfrequently  finds  vent  in  other 
things.  These  outbreakings  may  be  termed  his 
waste  thoughts,  and  he  should  be  thankful  that 
they  take  no  worse  direction  than  that  of  writ 
ing  verse,  though  ever  so  humble  its  character. 
"  The  Old  Man "  is  a  part  of  an  unfinished 
Poem  which  may  hereafter  be  completed. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Evening 11 

The  Old  Man 17 

The  Beggar  Boy 31 

The  Lone  Wood 39 

The  Wind 41 

The  Face  that  Looketh  up  from  the  Stream       .  43 

To  One  in  Heaven 45 

Lines  Suggested  on  Finishing  a  Bust  of  Allston  48 

The  Brook 51 

The  Return 52 

To  Amanda 55 

The  Traveller  and  Maiden        56 

The  Pee- Wee 60 

The  Kennebec                                                           ,  62 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Annabelle 65 

The  Water  Lily 67 

Sleep  and  Death gg 

The  Wreck  of  the  Slave  Ship     ....  71 

Lay  thy  Palm  upon  my  Brow 75 

The  Poet X  '(I  (  77 

A  Walk  by  the  River  Side 79 

Autumn g5 

The  Blacksmith gg 

The  Dream        90 

Morning .  qQ 


EVENING. 


EVENING. 


THE  twilight  Hours,  fair  winged  hours, 

Now  with  the  fading  light 
All  silently  do  usher  in 

Their  elder  sister,  Night, 
The  shrouded  queen,  through  whose  deep  veil 

The  smiling  stars  gleam  bright. 

How  soft  their  misty  forms  glide  up 

The  spacious  vault  of  blue  ; 
They  clothe  the  hills  and  vales  and  plains 

In  robes  of  dusky  hue, 
While  from  their  marble  urns  descends 

On  earth  the  glistening  dew. 


EVENING. 


A  changing  flood  of  crimson  light 
Moves  slowly  down  the  west, 

Before  the  stately  march  of  her 
Who  bears  upon  her  breast 

A  shield  inlaid  with  stars,  and  on 
Her  head  a  silver  crest. 

A  drowsy  hum  steals  on  the  air 
From  ocean's  ceaseless  flow, 

As  when  the  mountain  peasant  hears 
In  murmurs  strong,  yet  low, 

The  voice  of  some  great  multitude 
Far  in  the  vale  below. 


The  robin's  dirge  to  parting  light 
Hath  ceased  upon  the  hill ; 

The  laughing  brook,  that  all  the  day 
Rolled  down  with  hearty  will, 

Beneath  the  dusky  wings  of  night 
No  longer  turns  the  mill. 


EVENING.  13 

At  such  an  hour  as  this  men  flee 

From  care  and  bitter  strife, 
To  seek,  beside  the  social  hearth, 

With  love  and  beauty  rife, 
That  calm  which  true  affection  throws 

Around  the  toils  of  life. 


For  love  likes  not  the  glare  of  day  ; 

But  as  a  gentle  flower 
That  fainting  droops  its  head  beneath 

The  heat  of  noon-day  hour, 
It  sweetly  glows  when  evening  mild 

Comes  with  its  soothing  power. 

The  poor  and  honest  man,  whose  form 

Beneath  oppression  bends, 
Feels  life  leap  through  his  care-worn  limbs, 

Such  strength  to  him  love  lends  ; 
He  half  forgets  his  daily  task, 

As  home  he  lightly  wends. 


14  EVENING. 

E'en  I,  whose  path  lies  far  away 
From  man's  accustomed  wrong, 

Who  seldom  mingle  with  the  mass, 
The  fevered  thoughtless  throng, 

That  hurrying  sweep  unceasingly 
The  pent-up  streets  along, 

Now  greet  with  joy,  O  gentle  Night, 
Thy  calm  and  full  control ; 

For  through  the  firmament  of  thought, 
That  strange,  yet  perfect  whole, 

Like  stars  at  night,  the  rays  of  truth 
Look  in  upon  the  soul. 


THE    OLD    MAN. 


17 


THE    OLD    MAN. 


'T  WAS  autumn,  and  a  mellow  light 
In  beauty  clothed  the  scene, 

A  lengthened  train  of  shadows  lay 
Upon  the  swarthy  green, 

Where  fell  the  rays  of  setting  sun 
Like  golden  bars  between, 


When  Walter  Gray  a  thoughtless  man, 

Who  dwelt  in  forest  wild, 
Returning  down  the  woodland  glade, 

Spoke  harshly  to  his  child. 
"  Now  wherefore  shouldst  thou  angrily 

Thus  chide  thy  little  one  ? 
Methinks  't  were  more  a  parent's  part 

To  speak  in  gentler  tone. 


18  THE     OLD     MAN. 


"  Nay,  smooth  thy  brow,  I  'm  weak  and  old. 

But  let  me  take  thy  boy, 
His  sunny  face  and  laughing  eye 

Dilate  my  breast  with  joy." 
So  part  in  anger,  part  in  shame, 

Corrected  Walter  stood. 
"  Now  who  art  thou,  with  long  gray  beard, 

That  seek'st  this  lonely  wood  ?  " 


"  Would'st  listen  to  an  old  man's  talk  ? 

Then  sit  thee  by  my  side." 
And,  swayed  by  light  or  deeper  tones, 

The  old  man  thus  replied  :  — 
"  Due  westward,  where  the  setting  sun 

Gleams  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
Full  twenty  years  I  saw  it,  sir, 

As  we  do  see  it  now. 


THE     OLD     MAN.  19 


"  And  where  yon  tall  and  leafless  pine 

Towers  upward  from  the  vale, 
Its  limbs  and  bark  by  lightning   shorn, 

Now  standing  ghostly  pale, 
An  humble  dwelling  once  I  reared 

Upon  the  land  I  tilled  : 
It  was  not  framed  for  foolish  show 

Such  as  in  pride  ye  build  ; 


"  But  massive  logs  together  piled 

With  clay  and  straw  between, 
And  o'er  the  low-thatched  roof  there  crept 

Woodbine  and  evergreen. 
There  bloomed  the  wind-flower  and  the  rose 

Beside  the  buttercup, 
The  velvet  pink  that  gently  folds 

At  eve  its  petals  up. 


20  THE     OLD     MAN. 


"  The  sweetbriar  and  the  violet 

In  silent  beauty  grew, 
And  in  the  morning's  rosy  light 

I  saw  them  smiling  through, 
With  looks  as  lovely  as  a  child's, 

The  pearly  drops  of  dew. 


"  A  tiny  brook,  a  laughing  rill, 

Danced  ever  by  the  door, 
And  kissed  the  moss  and  little  vines 

That  wrapt  the  cold  stones  o'er. 
The  trees,  the  flowers,  the  running  brook, 

The  gentle  song  of  birds, 
To  me  a  heavenly  music  spoke, 

1  More  eloquent  than  words.' 


THE     OLD     MAN.  21 


"  The  flowers,  like  childhood's  happy  thoughts, 

Pass  quietly  away  : 
They  bloom  in  spring,  in  Autumn  winds 

They  wither  and  decay. 
But  then  a  fairer,  nobler  flower 

To  my  young  heart  was  given  :  — 
I  do  believe,  as  Christ  doth  live, 

'T  is  blooming  now  in  heaven. 


"  That  lovely  lady  of  the  vale 

Had  eyes  like  thine,  my  child, 
Through  which  the  soul  in  beauty  breathed 

A  language  ever  mild. 
And  she  a  blessed  mother  was  ;  — 

With  reverence  be  it  said, 
Earth  never  held  a  fairer  form, 

Than  that  dear  mother  dead. 


22  THE     OLD     MAN. 

"  Alas !  that  we  should  feel  such  blight, 

That  all  our  joys  are  brief! 
Nay,  nay,  be  seated  still,  my  friend, 

I  soon  shall  find  relief. 
I  cannot  choose  but  let  them  flow, 

These  tokens  of  my  grief. 

"  Albeit  there  are  those  whose  hearts 
By  sorrow  have  been  steeled ; 

For  grief  full  oft  benumbs  the  mind 
Till  every  spring  is  sealed  ;  — 

With  them  the  rays  of  love  and  truth 
No  kindly  influence  yield. 

"  But  I  must  weep,  as  back  I  turn 
To  years  that  long  have  passed, 

Years  that  have  seen  my  brighest  hopes 
To  dark  oblivion  cast, 

Swept,  as  the  trembling  leaves  are  swept 
By  chill  November's  blast. 


THE    OLD    MAN.  23 

"  And  all  must  weep  whose  hearts  are  framed 

To  nature's  plaintive  tones  ; 
Its  voice  is  in  the  passing  breeze, 

The  leafless  forest  moans, 
And  yonder  bird  with  music  sweet 

A  sadder  feeling  owns. 

"  But  these  are  melancholy  strains, 

Soft  as  the  breathing  lute 
Attuned  by  nature's  boundless  love, 

The  lonely  heart  to  suit : 
To  thoughtless  mirth  and  foolish  pride 

The  heavens  are  always  mute. 

"  It  is  a  mournful  thing  to  those 

Who  love  kind  nature's  face, 
And  in  her  varied  features  learn 

A  heavenly  power  to  trace, 
To  see  how  man  of  thoughtless  mind 

Her  beauty  doth  deface. 


24  THE    OLD    MAN. 

"Ah,  why  is  he  a  thing  accursed  ? 

Why  shrinks  he  from  the  light 
That  from  the  inner  man  should  flow 

And  guide  his  steps  aright  ? 
Why  turns  he  down  the  rugged  path 

That  leads  to  darkest  night  ? 

"  Pride,  selfish  pride  his  eye  hath  dimmed 

And  led  his  soul  astray : 
He  scarcely  hears  the  still  small  voice 

That  bids  him  ever  pray, 
Nor  sees  the  deep  overwhelming  gulf 

That  skirts  his  thorny  way. 

"  If  man  to  man  were  always  kind, 
These  tears  would  never  flow, 

Nor  had  I  cause  to  feel  the  grief 
That  rends  my  bosom  so, 

Which,  through  a  long  and  cheerless  life 
Hath  bowed  my  spirit  low. 


THE    OLD    MAN.  25 

"  Look  on  the  golden  harvest-fields 

Now  bathed  in  smoky  light ; 
And  hark  !  the  sound  of  yonder  stream 

That  greets  the  coming  night ; 
With  silvery  voice,  a  low  sweet  tune 

It  singeth  with  delight. 

"  O  nature,  with  thy  ceaseless  voice, 

Thy  kind  maternal  face, 
How  dost  thou  ever  strive  to  woo 

Man  from  his  wild  embrace 
Of  wrong,  of  hate,  and  reckless  strife, 

To  God's  exceeding  grace  ! 

"  There  's  beauty  in  the  changing  scene, 
When  Autumn's  hand  hath  spread 

Her  mantle,  o'er  the  forest  trees, 
Of  yellow,  brown,  and  red  ; 

Wild  music  in  the  dance  of  leaves, 
By  viewless  fairies  led ; 
3 


26  THE    OLD    MAN. 

"  A  fragrance  in  the  fading  flower 
That  meekly  droops  its  head ; 

Reward  in  heaven  for  those  who  watch 
Around  the  sick  one's  bed  ; 

A  holy  calm  for  those  who  love 
The  memory  of  the  dead. 


"  Here  sleeps,  within  the  silent  grave, 

That  form  so  dear  to  me ; 
The  forest  trees  above  her  wave, 

Murmuring  pleasantly. 
A  tinkling  brook,  with  mournful  sound, 

Is  ever  hymning  there, 
And  gentle  flowers  hang  o'er  the  mound, 

Like  saints  that  bend  in  prayer. 


THE    OLD    MAN.  27 

"  Yet  doth  her  spirit  sometimes  deign 

My  weary  path  to  cheer, 
To  soothe  the  heart's  unceasing  pain 

And  dry  the  silent  tear. 
A  presence  still  of  her,  I  know, 

Doth  guide  my  thoughts  aright, 
And  lead  me  on  towards  the  flow 

Of  heaven's  unchanging  light. 


"  But  see !  the  sun  goes  down  the  west, 

The  sky  is  flaked  with  red, 
And  o'er  the  grass  and  fading  flowers 

The  glistening  dew  is  spread. 
How  calmly  steals  the  twilight  round 

The  mansions  of  the  dead  !  " 


28  THE    OLD    MAN. 

Thus  talked  awhile  that  aged  man  ; 

His  eye,  though  dimmed  with  tears, 
Spoke  of  the  earnest,  trustful  hope 

Of  one  who  ever  hears 
The  music  of  eternal  peace 

Borne  on  the  tide  of  coming  years. 


THE     BEGGAR    BOY 


THE  BEGGAR  BOY. 


"  Oh  ye  !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  fate, 

Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown !  " 

BURNS. 


I. 


I  SAW  a  ragged  beggar  boy, 

A  fair  and  gentle  child, 
Approach  a  rich  and  haughty  man, 

And  say,  in  accents  mild, 


32  THE     BEGGAR     BOY. 

"  I  have  no  home  to  shelter  me, 
My  parents  both  are  dead  ; 

O  wilt  thou  not  in  charity 
Give  me  a  little  bread  ?  " 


A  scowl  was  on  the  rich  man's  brow, 
As  on  the  child  he  gazed, 

And,  turning  scornfully  away, 
In  pride  his  Maker  praised, 


That  he  was  not  that  famished  wight, 

All  helpless  and  forlorn, 
Cast  on  this  rude  unfeeling  world, 

To  luckless  misery  born. 


The  child  in  bitter  anguish  wept, 
His  heart  was  torn  with  grief; 

While  in  the  bleak  and  searching  wind 
He  trembled  like  a  leaf. 


THE     BEGGAR     BOY. 


Night's  heavy  shades  came  thick  and  fast, 
The  wintry  winds  shrieked  wild, 

As  in  their  viewless  arms  they  bore 
A  white  robe  for  the  child. 


II. 


The  joyous  sound  of  song  and  dance, 

Of  barbiton  and  lyre, 
With  thoughtless  mirth  and  revelry 

In  rich  and  gay  attire, 


Had  met  within  a  banquet  hall, 

Upon  that  gloomy  night, 
Where  sparkling  wine  and  costly  gems 

Flashed  in  a  flood  of  light. 


34  THE     BEGGAR    BOY. 

And  beauty  with  her  witching  eye, 

Oft  stole  a  thrilling  glance 
From  those  whose  hearts  beat  light  and  free, 

Amid  the  whirling  dance. 


There  tinted  rays,  from  chandeliers, 
Lit  locks  of  golden  hair, 

And  music,  mirth,  and  revelry, 
Swelled  on  the  midnight  air. 


Cold  avarice,  with  selfish  aim, 
To  pampered  wealth  allied, 

Had  gathered,  in  that  festival, 
The  nation's  shame  and  pride. 


Still  faster  whirled  the  giddy  dance, 
Each  heart  o'erflowed  with  joy  ; 

Still  louder  shrieked  the  ruthless  blast 
Above  the  beggar  boy. 


THE     BEGGAR    BOY.  35 


III. 

The  sound  of  dance  and  revelry 
No  longer  woke  the  night ; 

For  stealing  slowly  up  the  sky 
Soft  came  the  morning  light. 

A  bridal  robe  of  spotless  white, 
Upon  the  cold  earth  lay, 

And  dome,  and  spire,  and  capital, 
Gleamed  in  the  sunlit  ray. 

A  thousand  gems  of  crystal  hue 
From  drooping  branches  hung, 

And  in  the  clear  and  frosty  air 
Like  fairy  castles  swung. 


36  THE     BEGGAR     BOY. 

A  laborer  with  the  morn's  first  beam, 
Sought  his  accustomed  toil, 

To  mingle  in  the  hardened  strife, 
The  city's  rough  turmoil. 


With  pallid  cheek  and  haggard  brow, 

He  went  upon  his  way, 
And  passing  by  a  mouldering  wall, 

Where  ruined  columns  lay, 


He  found  beneath  a  frosty  heap 
The  stormy  blasts  had  piled, 

Cold  as  the  stones  that  round  him  lay, 
That  poor  and  friendless  child  ! 


THE     BEGGAR    BOY.  37 


IV. 


'T  was  noon  in  heaven ;  —  the  angel  choirs, 

By  ever-gushing  springs, 
Amid  the  amaranthine  groves 

Had  spread  their  snowy  wings, 


And  soaring  mid- way  in  the  air, 
Hung  o'er  the  living  stream 

That  from  the  golden  city  flows, 
Like  morning's  starry  beam. 


Winding  amid  the  silent  worlds, 
Far  through  the  upper  sky, 

Along  the  path-way  of  the  sun. 
Bright  visions  met  the  eye. 


38  THE     BEGGAR    BOY. 

On  through  the  eternal  sea  of  light, 
Mid  swelling  strains  of  joy, 

An  angel  host,  on  golden  wings 
Bore  home  the  BEGGAR  BOY. 


Joy  !   joy  !  to  thee,  thou  helpless  one  ! 

Thy  home  was  not  of  earth, 
No  more  thy  little  feet  in  vain 

Shall  seek  the  rich  man's  hearth ; 


Nor  shalt  thou,  in  the  wintry  storm, 
For  food  and  raiment  pine  ;  — 

In  radiant  robes  of  beauty  clothed, 
The  bread  of  life  is  thine. 


THE    LONE    WOOD. 


I  KNOW  a  path,  a  silent  path, 
O'erhung  with  forest  wild  ; 

So  deep,  so  dark,  the  sun's  fair  light 
Hath  never  on  it  smiled. 


It  winds  around  a  little  lake, 
Where  waving  cedars  grow ; 

And  dark  old  pines  in  stately  pride 
Their  branches  upward  throw. 


40  THE    LONE    WOOD. 

No  flowerets  deck  its  lonely  side, 
Or  scent  the  cooling  breeze ; 

No  cheerful  song  of  happy  birds 
Is  heard  among  the  trees. 


The  rippling  waves  along  the  shore 
Send  fcfrth  a  mournful  sound 

Blent  with  the  noise  of  rustling  leaves 
That  dance  upon  the  ground. 


It  is  a  lone  and  quiet  place, 

Most  fit  for  musing  mood  ; 
And  he  that  loves  not  pensive  thought, 

Likes  not  that  dark  old  wood. 


41 


THE   WIND. 


THROUGH  the  trees  with  hollow  voice, 
Roars  the  wild  and  ruthless  wind, 

Whirling  up  the  crisped  leaves 
On  the  ground  all  thickly  lined. 


At  the  window  now  it  calleth 
With  a  harsh  yet  mournful  cry, 

Like  the  wail  of  evil  spirits 
As  they  sweep  the  ebon  sky. 
4 


42  THE    WIND. 

Cruel  wind,  that  thus  complaineth 
Of  thy  hard  and  wayward  lot, 

Thinkest  thou  yon  houseless  beggar 
All  thy  rudeness  hath  forgot  ? 


With  thy  cold  and  piercing  breath 
Thou  didst  numb  his  pallid  form, 

In  his  wan  and  mournful  face 

Drov'st  the  rough  unfriendly  storm  ! 


Cruel  wind,  that  ever  wailest 
To  the  night  thy  misery  telling, 

Seek  thy  dark  and  lonely  caves, 

Come  not  round  our  humble  dwelling. 


43 


THE  FACE  THAT  LOOKETH  UP 

FROM  THE  STREAM. 


THOU  happy  child,  so  full  of  life, 
Wilt  thou  not  dally  here  awhile  ? 

Bend  o'er  this  stream,  and  thou  shalt  see 
A  sunny  face  look  up  and  smile. 


O  !  father !  7t  is  a  pleasant  face 
That  kindly  looketh  up  to  me ;  — 

It  seemeth  like  my  mother's  form, 
Yet  here  I  know  she  cannot  be. 


44  FACE    ON  THE  RUNNING    STREAM. 

'T  is  true,  my  child,  she  is  not  here ; 

But  look  again,  and  thou  shalt  trace 
Upon  the  brow  this  rosy  wreath, 

And  see  !  my  hand  is  on  the  face. 


And  yet  so  like  thy  mother  dear, 
I  see  thy  youthful  features  beam, 

I  almost  think  it  is  her  face, 

Thus  painted  on  the  running  stream. 


45 


TO   ONE   IN   HEAVEN. 


I  HAVE  not  seen  the  silent  place, 
Where  thy  dear  form  was  laid ; 

I  followed  not  the  mournful  train, 
That  bore  thee  in  death's  shade, 

Where  thoughtless  hands  had  scooped  a  grave, 

Beside  Ohio's  murmuring  wave. 


46  TO    ONE    IN    HEAVEN. 

Ah  me  !  what  bitter  grief  was  mine  !  — 

If  grief  it  may  be  called, 
When  deep  unutterable  woe 

The  shrinking  soul  hath  palled, 
And  dark  despair  hath  like  a  tomb 
Sealed  up  the  heart  in  speechless  gloom. 

But  oh  !  if  in  that  world  of  light, 

To  thee  the  power  is  given 
To  feel,  to  read  our  earthly  thoughts 

From  records  kept  in  heaven, 
Thou  knowest  with  what  heartfelt  prayer, 
I've  thanked  thee  for  thy  tender  care 

To  thy  poor  child,  whose  wayward  steps 
Thy  boundless  love  hath  staid 

From  those  wild  paths  which  lead  astray , 
That  he  might  seek  for  aid 

To  free  his  soul  from  passion's  strife, 

And  meekly  bear  the  ills  of  life. 


TO    ONE    IN    HEAVEN.  47 

Not  all  in  vain  my  tears  were  shed 

O'er  thy  untimely  fate  ; 
For  I  have  learned  with  patient  thought 

My  own  sad  hour  to  wait, 
And  firmly  trust,  as  Christ  doth  live, 
That  he  to  my  weak  soul  will  give 
A  changeless  home  in  realms  above, 
Where  I  shall  know  again  thy  love. 


48 


LINES  SUGGESTED  ON  FINISHING 
A  BUST  OF  ALLSTON. 


UPWARDS  unto  the  living  light 
Intensely  thou  dost  gaze, 

As  if  thy  very  soul  would  seek, 
In  that  far  distant  maze, 


Communion  with  those  heavenly  forms, 

That,  lifting  to  the  sight 
Their  golden  wings  and  snowy  robes, 

Float  on  a  sea  of  light. 


THE    BUST    OF    ALLSTON.  49 

Anon,  far,  far  away  they  glide, 
Shooting  through  realms  of  bliss, 

Till  from  the  spirit's  eye  they  fade 
In  Heaven's  own  bright  abyss. 


Such  are  the  visions  thou  dost  wake, 
Such  are  the  thoughts  that  rise 

In  him  who,  'neath  thy  upturned  brow, 
Beholds  thy  searching  eyes. 


There  is  no  stain  upon  that  brow, 

Where  once  the  glow  of  life 
With  more  than  earthly  beauty  shone,  — 

Within,  no  wasting  strife. 


How  strangely  have  the  swift  hours  flown, 

As  o'er  the  shapeless  pile 
I  poured  the  strength  of  my  full  soul, 

Lost  to  all  else  the  while. 


50  THE    BUST    OF    ALLSTON. 

When  fell  the  last  faint  stroke  which  told, 

That  thou  and  I  must  part, 
That  all  of  life  that  I  could  give 

Was  thine,  how  throbbed  my  heart ! 


Yet  to  this  head  that  I  have  formed, 
Should  aught  of  praise  belong, 

Not  unto  me  the  merit  due, 
But  Him  who  made  me  strong. 

Who,  ever  lent  His  fostering  care, 

My  wayward  steps  to  guide 
Through  paths  of  flowers  in  beauty  clothed, 

Along  life's  sunny  tide. 

Thou  who  wast  kind,  and  good,  and  great, 

Thy  task  on  earth  is  done  ; 
Of  those  that  walked  in  beauty's  light, 

Thou  wast  the  chosen  one. 


51 


THE  BROOK. 


O,  SWEET  to  me  yon  brooklet's  play  ; 
Its  merry  voice  is  heard 

Through  all  the  day, 

So  light  and  gay, 
Singing  the  sweetest  roundelay, 
That  e'er  a  maiden's  bosom  stirred. 


And  wild  it  leaps  adown  the  hill 
Among  the  rocks  to  stray  ; 

Around  the  mill 

With  voice  so  shrill, 
The  wild,  the  merry,  laughing  rill, 
Bounds  o'er  the  rocks  and  far  away. 


THE  RETURN. 


THE  setting  sun  had  closed  the  day, 
The  warm  light  still  was  glowing, 

As  winding  on  my  lonely  way 
By  streamlet's  gentle  flowing, 


I  met  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 
Beside  the  rippling  water  ; 

So  beautiful  she  seemed  to  me, 
I  fain  with  her  would  loiter. 


She  knelt  in  robes  all  snowy  white, 
Her  face  was  turned  to  heaven ; 

And  there,  amid  the  rosy  light, 
This  prayer  was  meekly  given  : 


THE     RETURN.  53 

"  O  Father,  guide  my  steps  aright ; 

And  with  thine  eye  all  seeing, 
O,  watch  thou  through  the  cheerless  night, 

A  poor  and  helpless  being  !  " 


She  turned  her  to  a  little  mound, 
The  vines  were  o'er  it  creeping, 

For  there  in  death's  cold  chains  were  bound 
The  loved  ones  'neath  it  sleeping. 

"  I  strew  these  flowers  upon  this  grave 
Where  silent  sleeps  my  mother ; 

And  this  I  cast  upon  the  wave, 
To  him,  my  long  lost  brother." 

Her  silver  voice  it  died  away, 

Her  eyes  with  tears  were  streaming, 

Reflecting  back  the  starlit  ray 
That  from  the  sky  was  beaming. 


54  THE    RETURN. 

I  bowed  me  to  the  lady  fair, 
The  while  her  bosom  trembled 

Beneath  a  flood  of  sunny  hair, 
That  golden  light  resembled. 

"  He  sleeps  not  in  the  dark  blue  wave, 
Though  here  may  sleep  my  mother ; 

For  He,  whose  hands  alone  could  save, 
Has  sent  thee  back  thy  Brother !" 


55 


TO   AMANDA. 


THE  happy  smiles  of  thy  sweet  face 
Have  found  a  never-changing  place 

Within  my  heart. 
Where  evermore  the  seraph  song 
Of  whispering  thoughts,  shall  gather  strong 

And  hold  a  part 

In  all  my  weary  wanderings. 
My  soul  from  inward  ponderings 
Looks  forth  upon  the  cold,  cold  world, 
And  sees,  as  when  in  gloom  of  night, 
One  lonely  star  is  shining  bright, 
No  other  form  than  thine. 


56 


THE  TRAVELLER  AND  MAIDEN, 


MAIDEN. 


TRAVELLER,  with  fatigue  opprest, 
In  our  dwelling  there  is  rest ; 
Wilt  partake  our  homely  fare  ? 
That  we  have  we  freely  share. 


TRAVELLER. 


Thanks  to  thee,  thou  gentle  maiden, 
Lend  thy  hand,  for  I  am  laden  ; 
Help  to  move  this  heavy  pack, 
Firmly  bound  upon  my  back. 


THE  TRAVELLER  AND  MAIDEN.      57 


MAIDEN. 

To  what  distant  land  dost  thou, 
Weak  and  old,  with  care-worn  brow, 
Wend  thy  way,  thou  hoary  sage 
In  the  twilight  of  thy  age  ? 


TRAVELLER. 

Maiden,  by  the  forest  yonder, 
Where  the  mountain  parts  asunder, 
There  a  silver  streamlet  glides, 
Down  the  mossy  vale  it  slides. 


MAIDEN. 

Yes,  and  by  its  side  the  flowers, 
Like  the  mem'ry  of  bright  hours, 
To  the  heart  refreshment  lend 
As  worn  travellers  o'er  them  bend. 
5 


58      THE  TRAVELLER  AND  MAIDEN. 


TRAVELLER. 


Bloom  they  still  upon  the  shore 
Brightly  as  in  days  of  yore, 
When  the  pilgrim's  faithful  band 
Worshipped  in  this  happy  land  ? 


MAIDEN. 


Father  told,  that  when  a  boy, 
Then  they  filled  his  heart  with  joy  ; 
Now  they  smile  above  his  head, 
Where  he  sleepeth  with  the  dead. 


TRAVELLER. 


Stands  the  cottage  now  as  then 
Far  within  the  rocky  glen, 
Where  the  foamy  waters  leap 
Down  the  dark  and  craggy  steep  ? 


THE  TRAVELLER  AND  MAIDEN.      59 


MAIDEN. 


Moss-grown  stands  the  cottage  now 
There  beneath  the  mountain's  brow, 
Not  as  when  I  was  a  child ;  — 
'T  is  a  ruin  lone  and  wild. 


TRAVELLER. 


Heaven  bless  thee,  I  must  go,  — 
May'st  thou  never  live  to  know 
Half  the  changes  here  I  find, 
As  I  call  past  scenes  to  mind. 


60 


THE    PEE-WEE. 


WITH  sound  of  woe,  all  chill  and  cold. 

The  drifting  snow  along  is  rolled, 

The  threatening  storm  is  gathering  fast ; 

I  hear,  sweet  bird,  amid  the  blast, 

Thy  little  song,  "  pee-wee,  pee-wee," 

Come  dwell  with  me,  come  dwell  with  me. 

In  forest  lone,  through  winter's  storm, 
Where  bleak  winds  moan,  thy  tiny  form 
Is  ever  seen  ;    from  rock  and  glen 
Sweet  echo  sendeth  back  again 
Thy  simple  strain,  "  pee-wee  pee-wee," 
Come  dwell  with  me,  come  dwell  with  me. 


THE    PEE-WEE.  61 

And  thou,  fair  maid,  with  rosy  cheek 

And  lids  that  shade  thy  eyes  so  meek, 

When  sadder  thoughts  by  gloom  are  stirred, 

Forget  not  thou  yon  little  bird : 

Above  the  storm  his  voice  is  free, 

Come  dwell  with  me,  come  dwell  with  me. 

In  passion's  strife,  when  joy  hath  fled, 
And  o'er  thy  life  no  ray  is  shed, 
When  dark  despair  is  gathering  strong, 
Then  list !  thou  'It  hear  a  gentle  song, 
A  still  small  voice  will  call  to  thee, 
Come  dwell  with  me,  come  dwell  with  me. 


THE  KENNEBEC. 


THOU  art  lovely,  noble  river, 
Flowing  to  thy  dark  blue  home  ; 

Borne  upon  thee,  flowerets  floating 
Mingle  with  the  sparkling  foam. 


I  have  watched  at  morn  thy  ripples 
Dancing  in  the  sunny  beam, 

And  beneath  tall  trees  at  twilight 
Laid  me  on  thy  banks  to  dream. 


THE     KENNEBEC.  63 

As  in  thoughtful  mood  I  gazed, 

Thou  wast  ever  unto  me 
As  the  current  of  my  thoughts 

Heaving,  struggling  to  be  free. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  past 

Comes  a  train  of  silver  light 
Telling  of  those  happy  days, 

When  my  heart  was  free  from  blight ; 

When  the  rushing  pulses  beat 

To  the  joyous  dance  of  youth, 
When  the  face  unconsciously 

Mirrored  back  the  rays  of  truth. 

By  thy  side  I  oft  have  greeted 
Friends  that  I  may  meet  no  more ; 

She,  the  loved,  whose  heart  was  plighted, 
Sleepeth  by  thy  pebbly  shore. 


64  THE      KENNEBEC. 

There  the  wild  rose  sweetly  growing 
Sheds  its  leaves  o'er  hallowed  graves ; 

There  forever  gently  breathing, 
Chimes  the  music  of  thy  waves. 


Thou  art  like,  O  gentle  river, 
To  life's  deep  un fathomed  tide, 

And  the  flowers  are  lovely  visions, 
That  adown  its  surface  glide. 


65 


ANNABELLE. 


SWEET  Annabelle,  dear  Annabelle, 
When  thou  wast  weak  and  pale, 

And  leaning  on  my  arm,  we  went 
Adown  the  lonely  vale, 

I  well  remember  thou  didst  tell 

That  I  should  lose  thee,  Annabelle. 

A  long  and  weary  time  has  past, 
The  spring  has  come  again, 

The  laurel  blooms  upon  the  hill, 
The  daisy  on  the  plain,  — 

I  wander  lonely  through  the  dell ;  — 

But  where  art  thou,  sweet  Annabelle  ? 


66  ANNABELLE. 

The  little  birds  call  to  their  mates 

From  every  shady  nook, 
And,  rushing  down  the  woodland  side, 

I  hear  the  gurgling  brook ; 
To  me  it  seems  to  ring  thy  knell,  — 
For  thou  art  dead,  dear  Annabelle. 


Sweet  Annabelle,  dear  Annabelle, 
When  thou  wast  weak  and  pale, 

And  leaning  on  my  arm,  we  went 
Adown  the  lonely  vale ; 

I  well  remember  thou  didst  tell 

That  I  should  lose  thee,  Annabelle. 


67 


THE    WATER  LILY. 


How  bright,  upon  the  rippling  tide, 
The  snow-white  lilies  bloom ! 

As,  swaying  there  in  stately  pride, 
They  smile  above  the  gloom  ! 


See,  like  the  joyous  things  of  life, 
Their  upturned  faces  glow, 

Regardless  of  the  water's  strife, 
Its  dark  and  sullen  flow. 


68  THE     WATER     LILY. 

As  pure  as  snow-flakes  from  the  skies. 
The  buds,  expanding  wide, 

Upon  the  surface  gently  rise 
And  sway  above  the  tide. 


Lo !  nature  lifts  her  fairest  flower 
From  out  the  dark  steel  wave, 

The  rainbow  shines  amid  the  shower, 
The  rose  blooms  o'er  the  grave. 

Thus  sweetly  in  the  morn  of  life 
Hope's  fairest  flowerets  bloom, 

Unmindful  of  the  bitter  strife, 

That  shrouds  the  heart  in  gloom. 


69 


SLEEP  AND   DEATH. 


AN    ILLUSTRATION    OF  A    GROUP    OF    SCULPTURE, 


LIKE  an  infant  laid  to  rest, 
Rosy  Sleep  with  dewy  eye 

Unto  Death  his  warm  cheek  pressed  ;- 
"  Thou  shalt  ever  by  me  lie." 


Sleep  doth  nestle  by  his  side, 
Even  as  the  wooing  dove  ; 

Death  is  cold  and  filmy-eyed, 

And  the  world  doth  hate  his  love. 


70  SLEEP     AND     DEATH. 

Coming  from  the  silent  land, 
Over  life  they  have  control, 

Ever  wandering  hand  in  hand, 
Speaking  only  to  the  soul. 


Death  and  Sleep  twin  brothers  are  ; 

Death  is  folded  to  the  breast  ; 
Gentle  Sleep  he  soothes  life's  care, 

Death  doth  give  eternal  rest. 


THE  WRECK    OF  THE   SLAVE  SHIP. 


THERE  's  a  huge  black  cloud,  like  a  midnight 
shroud, 

Stretched  out  on  the  ocean's  verge, 
Where  the  sea  and  sky  to  mortal  eye 

In  one  vast  concave  merge  ; 
The  wind  doth  blow,  yet  with  motion  slow 

A  ship  rolls  on  with  the  surge. 

From  the  gunwale  trail  her  masts  and  sail, 

No  helm  her  course  to  check  ; 
Around  her  beams  the  white  foam  gleams, 

The  waves  leap  o'er  her  deck ; 
Through  the  heaving  sea,  all  fearfully 

She  comes  a  shattered  wreck. 


72  WRECK    OF    THE    SLAVE    SHIP. 

On,  on  she  steers,  nor  tacks  nor  veers  ; 

The  sailors  weep  and  pray ; 
The  angry  main  heeds  not  their  pain, 

But  sweeps  them  down  the  bay  ; 
With  heavy  crash  on  rocks  they  dash, 

The  timbers  float  away. 

Clenched  in  the  sand  his  bony  hand, 

One  strives  with  might  and  main, 
Lest  the  heaving  swell  that  o'er  him  fell 

Should  bear  him  back  again  ! 
For  with  deafening  roar  against  the  shore, 

Breaks  up  the  foamy  train ; 
Like  an  Arab  steed,  when,  at  full  speed, 

The  rider  checks  the  rein. 

No  power  can  save  ;  the  maddening  wave 

Hath  swept  him  out  to  sea  ; 
At  times  his  form,  amid  the  storm, 

Looks  up  imploringly  ; 
Then  sinks  away  from  light  of  day, 

Down,  down  eternally ! 


WRECK    OF    THE    SLAVE    SHIP.  73 

High  up  the  sky,  with  mournful  cry, 

The  sea-bird  wends  her  course  ; 
Nor  cares  to  gaze  on  eyes  deep  glazed 

By  death's  unyielding  force  ; 
For  everywhere,  with  floating  hair, 

The  sea  heaves  up  a  corse. 

From  the  water's  edge  a  long  black  ledge 

Shoots  out  athwart  the  bay ; 
In  its  craggy  sides  the  fierce  shark  hides, 

To  seize  upon  his  prey  ; 

Through  the  foam-built  wreath  he  '11  gnash  his 
teeth, 

Nor  want  for  food  to-day. 

Why  o'er  that  crew,  thou  shrill  curlew, 

Is  heard  thy  little  song  ? 
Thou  bearest  not  man's  wayward  lot, 

His  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 
For  he  of  might  assumes  the  right, 

His  brother  man  to  wrong. 
6 


74  WRECK    OF    THE    SLAVE    SHIP. 

The  storm-lit  sea,  that  angrily 
Now  swallows  up  the  dead, 

Is  yet  more  kind  than  they  who  bind 
On  man  a  yoke  of  lead, 

Till,  like  a  serf,  he  licks  the  turf, 
Where  ruthless  tyrants  tread. 


75 


LAY  THY  PALM  UPON  MY  BROW, 


COME  lay  thy  palm  upon  my  brow, 

Sit  closer  by  my  side  ; 
Thou  hast  been  very  kind  to  me, 

I  would  those  tears  were  dried. 


Oh  Mary,  Mary,  cease  to  weep, 

I  would  it  were  not  so  ; 
Two  happy  months  have  scarcely  flown, 

And  it  is  hard  to  know, 


76     LAY  THY  PALM  UPON  MY  BROW, 

While  in  the  very  morn  of  life, 
That  we  in  grief  must  part,  — 

For  I  have  felt  the  hand  of  death 
Press  heavy  on  my  heart. 


Then  lay  thy  palm  upon  my  brow, 

Sit  closer  by  my  side  ; 
Thou  hast  been  very  kind  to  me, 

I  would  those  tears  were  dried. 


77 


THE  POET. 


THE  poet  sighs,  the  poet  sings,  — 
Ah  wherefore  should  he  sigh, 

Who  breathes  such  notes  of  melody, 
Whose  thoughts  may  never  die. 


Go  ask  the  flower,  whose  rich  perfume 

Upon  the  air  is  borne  ; 
Is  not  its  breath  more  fragrant,  when 

By  rude  hands  it  is  torn  ? 


78  THE     POET. 

w 

Ask  why  above  yon  silvery  lake 
A  strain  of  music  floats  ;  — 

It  is  the  snow-white  swan,  whose  life 
Is  parting  with  its  notes. 


Go  ask  the  sweet  ^Eolian  harp, 
Why  its  soft  music  flows  ; 

It  only  sings,  when  o'er  the  chords 
The  chill  wind  harshly  blows. 


Then  ask  not  why  the  poet  sighs, 
Or  why  he  sweetly   sings  ; 

For  like  the  harp  his  heart  is  strung, 
And  sadness  moves  the  strings. 


79 


A  WALK    BY   THE  RIVER  SIDE. 


MY  friend  and  I  walked  arm  in  arm 

Along  the  river's  side  ; 
He  was  a  man  of  thoughtful  mind, 

And  scarce  to  me  replied, 


As  I,  with  lightsome  heart,  rehearsed 
A  tale  of  by-gone  times,  -•:  Mi 

Which  some  poor  bard  in  frantic  mood 
Had  woven  into  rhyme's. 


80  A    WALK    BY    THE    RIVER    SIDE. 

A  simple  story  of  a  youth 

Who  climbed  a  mountain's  crest, 
To  rob  an  eagle,  that  had  built 

Upon  its  top  her  nest, 


Who  daily  sought  among  his  flocks 
To  seize  upon  her  prey, 

And  ever,  as  his  back  was  turned, 
Would  bear  the  lambs  away 


To  feed  her  young,  until  the  ledge 
With  chalky  bones  was  white, 

And,  like  a  spectre  mountain,  loomed 
Up  through  the  pale  moon  light. 


I  scarce  had  reached  the  closing  verse, 
Which  told  with  wondrous  skill, 

How  manfully  he  battled  long 
That  war-like  bird  to  kill, 


A    WALK    BY    THE    RIVER    SIDE.  81 

When  Arthur  turned  to  me  and  said, 

While  pointing  up  the  sky  : 
See  far  away  yon  bird,  that  seems 

No  larger  than  a  fly. 


How  fast  he  nears,  and  now  we  see 
His  broad  wings  waving  wide, 

And  now  he  hangs  all  motionless 
Above  the  rolling  tide. 


Anon  he  folds  his  massive  wings  ; 

Then,  with  a  sudden  sweep, 
Swift  as  a  falling  star,  he  shot 

Far  down  the  swelling  deep. 


So  heavily  he  seemed  to  plunge 
Beneath  the  dark  blue  wave, 

I  well  nigh  thought  the  crazy  bird 
Had  found  a  watery  grave  ; 


2  A    WALK    BY    THE    RIVER    SIDE. 

But  soon  he  rose  with  motion  slow 
From  out  the  glistening  spray, 

And  in  his  talons  firmly  grasped, 
He  held  his  finny  prey. 


A  short  way  up  the  stream  there  grew 

A  dark  old  forest  wood, 
Where  on  a  dry  and  blasted  limb 

A  white-head  eagle  stood, 


And  eyed  the  fish-hawk,  as  he  rose 

High  up  the  pathless  sky  ; 
Then,  leaping  from  the  trembling  limb, 

With  wild  discordant  cry 


Pursued  the  hawk  that  frightened  fled, 
Till  forced  to  yield  his  prey, 

Which  that  fierce  eagle  seized  upon, 
And  proudly  bore  away. 


A    WALK   BY   THE    RIVER    SIDE.  83 

Then  Arthur  turned  again  and  said  : 

"  How  like  yon  tireless  bird, 
The  artist  soars  through  realms  of  light, 

By  heavenly  beauty  stirred, 


"  Till  prompted  by  unyielding  want, 

He  plunges  into  strife, 
And  veils  his  God-like  nature  'neath 

The  turbid  stream  of  life. 


"  And  ever  as  he  rises  up 

With  heavy  earth-stained  wings, 
There  follows  him  an  ugly  fiend 

That,  like  the  eagle,  springs 


"  To  rob  him  of  the  paltry  mite 
Which  he  has  fought  to  gain, 

And  he  must  needs  with  patient  thought 
Live  on,  nor  e'er  complain. 


84  A    WALK    BY    THE     RIVER    SIDE. 

"  3T  is  naught  that  his  warm  heart  should  heave 

With  agonizing  woe, 
While  thousand  thoughtless  souls  glide  on, 

Nor  wish  or  care  to  know, 


"  How  sad  a  thing  it  is  to  feel 
The  heavy  moveless  chain, 

That  fetters  the  immortal  mind, 
And  renders  life  all  vain." 


85 


AUTUMN. 


COME  thou  amid  the  starlight  dim, 
Where  blows  the  fresh  south  wind, 

And,  falling  from  the  forest  trees, 
The  leaves  the  ground  have  lined  ; 


And  we  will  tread  yon  rugged  path 

Along  the  upland  lea, 
And  listen  to  the  plaintive  voice, 

That  cometh  from  the  sea. 


86  AUTUMN. 

The  sea  it  answereth  to  the  wail 

Of  winds  upon  the  hill, 
Where,  leaping  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 

Is  heard  the  gurgling  rill. 


The  leaves  lie  pale  upon  the  ground. 
They  tremble  in  the  breeze  ; 

For  cold  the  hand,  that  has  been  laid 
Upon  the  mighty  trees. 


A  voice  of  sadness  fills  the  air, 
All  nature  seems  to  weep,  — 

The  pine-trees  bow  their  stately  heads, 
As  o'er  the  strong  winds  sweep. 


The  flowers  lie  faded  'neath  our  feet  ; 

For  Autumn  hath  been  here, 
And,  with  his  cold  and  withering  breath, 

Hath  left  them  pale  and  sere. 


AUTUMN.  87 

The  dying  flowers  !  their  breath  we  breathe, 

Their  spirits  glide  on  high, 
Careering  through  the  eternal  blue 

Along  the  starlit  sky. 


88 


THE  BLACKSMITH. 


THE  Smith  stands  by,  with  small  blue  eye 
That  shines  beneath  a  forehead  high,  — 
His  sinewy  form  is  strongly  made, 
And  speaks  him  master  of  his  trade. 


He  moves  the  break,  the  live  coals  shake, 
He  turns  them  o'er  with  iron  rake, 
And  from  the  hot  and  glowing  pile 
He  draws  the  spike  and  checkered  file. 


THE     BLACKSMITH.  89 

With  heavy  sounds  the  sledge  rebounds, 
A  massive  weight  of  many  pounds  ; 
His  brawny  arm  with  ease  doth  ply, 
While  round  about  the  sparkles  fly. 


The  sickle  made,  a  curving  blade 
With  sharp  and  jagged  teeth  inlaid, 
To  serve  the  hardy  sun-burnt  hand 
That  reaps  the  harvest  of  the  land. 


Thus  day  and  night  a  lurid  light 

From  forge  and  anvil  glistens  bright, 

On  bony  arm  and  swarthy  brow 

Of  him  who  moulds  the  scythe  and  plough, 


For  man  doth  fret,  and  toil,  and  sweat, 
Till  care  with  iron  hand  hath  set 
Upon  his  brow  her  wrinkled  seal, 

And  moulds  him  as  he  moulds  the  steel. 

7 


90 


THE   DREAM. 


COME  gently  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine, 
Thy  hand  upon  my  brow  ; 

For  I  am  lonely  and  would  have 
Thee,  sister,  with  me  now. 


This  seat  is  thine  ;    now  sit  thee  down. 

Didst  see  me  when  I  slept  ? 
I  had  a  dream,  sweet  dream,  so  soft 

The  vision  o'er  me  crept. 


THE     DREAM.  91 

I  deemed  that  I  was  still  awake, 

Still  heard  thy  evening  song 
Poured  forth  in  strains  of  tenderness  ; 

And  my  weak  heart  grew  strong. 

While  round  thy  notes  of  music  stole, 
Unearthly  beauty  filled  my  soul ; 
And  ever  present  to  my  sight, 
Seemed  floating  on  a  sea  of  light 
An  Angel  form. 

^aJ^^^:^   ittftlE    : 

Dear  Jane,  in  thee  I  fondly  trace 
The  image  of  thy  mother's  face, 
And  sure  I  am  thy  mother  dear 
In  spirit  form  was  hovering  near, 
And  called  to  me. 

With  motion  graceful  as  a  child, 
She  beckoned  me  with  look  so  mild, 
I  could  not  choose  but  look  that  way, 
And  oft  in  whispers  heard  her  say  ; 
O  come  with  me. 


92 


MORNING. 


THE  sombre  queen  lifts  up  her  veil. 

The  stars  that  shone  so  bright 
Through  all  the  silent  hours  of  rest, 

From  that  far  distant  height, 
How  have  they  striven  to  woo  my  soul 

To  worlds  of  living  light ! 

Now  waning  slow,  with  tearful  eyes 

I  see  them  fade  away, 
Till  one  by  one  the  silvery  mist 

Has  veiled  each  heavenly  ray  ; 
While  in  the  east  a  deep  dull  red 

Proclaims  the  coming  day. 


MORNING. 


93 


The  gushing  sound  of  laughing  rills,  — 

The  lowing  of  the  herds, 
As  down  the  grassy  lane  they  go,  — 

The  gentle  song  of  birds 
That  call  from  leafy  groves  with  notes 

More  musical  than  words,  — 


Are  borne  upon  the  fresh  south  wind, 
That  fans  my  pallid  cheek 

And  calms  my  fevered  brow,  as  one 
Who,  with  affection  meek, 

Bends  o'er  my  couch  with  tender  eyes 
That  all  too  plainly  speak 

To  my  faint  heart,  and  bid  me  learn 

To  love  all  simple  things. 
Yet  am  I  sad.     The  rosy  morn 

Nought  but  affliction  brings  ; 
For  haggard  want,  with  fiendish  look, 

Forever  round  me  clings. 


94 


MORNING. 


O  call  it  not  a  weakness,  if,  — 
In  this  hard  world,  which  teems 

With  countless  host  of  selfish  souls, 
Who  live  in  fevered  dreams 

Of  worthless  dross,  —  whose  only  joy 
From  hoarded  lucre  gleams, 

And  that  wrung  from  the  honest  toil 
Of  those  they  proudly  spurn 

As  things  accursed  by  God  and  man,  - 
I  mournfully  return 

To  my  own  roof,  and  from  the  night 
A  kinder  lesson  learn. 


That  which  I  should  be,  I  am  not ; 

The  stream  is  turned  aside. 
Think  not  the    visions  of  my  youth 

O'er  which  I  dwelt  with  pride, 
Have,  like  a  fair  but  tender  plant, 

For  want  of  culture  died  ; 


MORNING.  95 

But  rather,  like  the  flower  which  springs 
Where  strong  winds  ceaseless  blow, 

Whirling  the  leaves  with  wailing  sound 
As  round  and  round  they  go, 

Till  bruised  and  torn,  at  last  they  hurl 
It  down  the  vale  below. 


Be  calm,  ye  troubled  thoughts,  that  through 

My  dizzy  brain  are  whirled  ! 
For  up  the  sky,  in  golden  light, 

The  robes  of  day  unfurled, 
Speak  of  a  dawn  beyond  the  grave,  — 

Light  in  the  spirit  world. 


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